


Hold Out Your Hand

by thebrightestbird



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 19:40:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19235788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebrightestbird/pseuds/thebrightestbird
Summary: John takes a slow sip of his tea, mulling over the dynamics of his new band. He's surprised how naturally he’s conformed to their easy way with each other and their utter lack of boundaries. It's a level of intimacy he’s never had before.John comes to better understand himself as he gets closer to his new bandmates, especially Brian.A quiet little story of intimacy, affection, and attraction.





	Hold Out Your Hand

Barely two months with the band and John is on the road with them, playing at any place that would have them. Pubs, universities, night clubs, a cricket match, a 16-year-old’s birthday party. Anywhere and everywhere Roger’s van could get them to.

Speaking of Roger, the drummer is currently snoring on the other side of the small bed they’re sharing in the cheapest lodging they could get near Reading.

“The other side” is a very incorrect description of his proximity. Roger is basically using John as a body pillow. Brian and Freddie are on the other too-small bed.

“Deacy?” someone whispers in the dark.

He turns his head to see the whites of Brian’s eyes identifying him as the source of the voice. The guitarist is in a similar predicament as John, one of his long legs hanging off the bed to make room for Freddie’s sprawling form. Brian’s much too nice, John thinks. His body barely qualifies as being “on” the bed.

“Yes, Bri?”

“I can’t sleep like this. Mind if we talk until one of us nods off?”

“Don’t think we’ll disturb these two?” As soon as John asks, Roger releases yet another long snore directly in his ear. He sighs. “Nevermind.”

“What’d you think of the show tonight?”

Tonight, they played in a barn — in all their glam-rock glory. It was full makeup in a barely lit space. Their draped garments were much too warm for the humid environment. Their platform shoes crunched on the hay underneath their feet. The generator kept blowing out, barely able to handle their amplifiers and the few lights that were plugged in.

“It was good,” John squeaks out in a poor effort to sound like he means it.

Brian seems to know he’s lying. “I’m sorry a goat chewed on your amp cord.”

John groans. Yeah, that had happened too.

“Not all the gigs are going to be so … rough. It’s all about getting experience and some notoriety.”

John realizes Brian is concerned the dubious conditions of playing on the road have him second-guessing being in the band. “I’m not running away quite yet. I’m not so delicate that I can’t face down a goat or deal with Roger’s morning breath.”

“G-good, that’s good.” Brian’s smile of relief glows despite the darkness, a jarring, stunning sight. “I’m glad you’re here with us, John. I feel as if we’re really onto something big. Do you feel it?”

Before John can respond, Freddie flops over and shoves Brian out of bed and onto the floor. He lands with an “oof.”

John can’t hold in his laughter. “Well, I’m not sure about that other feeling, but I’m glad I’m not feeling the hardwood like you right now.”

Still-sleeping Roger promptly flops an arm right on his groin.

“Ow, fuck me!” he grits out, breathing through the ache.

Brian waits to calm down from laughing hard over John’s karmic pain before he attempts to get back into bed.

||

Their last performance before they head home is in a field for the most rockin’ wedding reception John’s ever attended. It’s open bar and as part of their payment the band can fully partake like other guests.

Freddie, with his latest cocktail in hand, plops onto John’s lap.

“Freddie, there are plenty of chairs for you to sit on. I’m sure you’ll be much more comfortable on one of those.”

“Why would I sit on those dreadful things when there’s the warm lap of a god available?”

John must be way too drunk now because the outrageous flattery actually works on him. He shrugs and wraps an arm around Freddie’s waist and sips from his glass. “Where’s Rog?”

“Well on his way up the maid of honor’s skirt, it seems.” Freddie points to the dancefloor where Roger isn’t so much dancing with the girl but holding her quite nice legs around his waist and bouncing to the rhythm.

“And Brian?” John asks.

“Behind you.”

John startles at the voice, almost forcing Freddie off his lap.

Freddie squeals a bit but recovers quickly, looking way up at their tall guitarist. “Brian, darling!” he happily, tipsily sings out. “Be-yoo-tiful Brian.”

A shy smile graces Brian’s lips.

“Are you done with your lecture?”

“Lecture?” John wonders.

“Some of the wedding party were asking about my guitar.”

“And you know how he loves to go on about that fireplace of his.”

Brian scoffs. “Freddie, it would have been rude not to indulge their curiosity.”

“Oh, yes, you were being oh-so-polite detailing all the materials and measurements to the newlywed wife while her husband’s sat waiting to have their first dance.”

Brian clears his throat. “She was really interested! And she’s paying us. Again, it would have been-”

“Yes, rude,” Freddie finishes for him. He motions for Brian to pull up a chair to sit next to them. When he does, Freddie kicks his legs up to lay on his lap while his bum is still firmly on John.

Brian scowls down at Freddie’s thighs but seems to accept that they aren’t going to be leaving his lap for now. “I have every reason to be proud,” he defends.

“It’s a very impressive instrument,” John agrees.

“Thank you, Deacy.”

“You do lecture on about it though.”

Freddie flails an arm in what could be seen as a gesture of agreement. “I mean, I get it, Brian. It’s a lovely fireplace. But you tend to masturbate over it.”

“What are we masturbating over?” Roger chooses that moment, of course, to join them.

“Brian’s guitar,” John answers.

“Again?” Roger whines in judgment.

Brian gives an indignant squawk.

“Roggie, my love!” Freddie declares as if he’d never been happier to see the drummer. He motions for Roger to sit with them. He pulls up a chair next to John, and Freddie promptly lays his head down in the newly available lap. “What happened to the leggy maiden?” he asks, looking fondly up, shifting his entire body to get comfortable in his completely prone state.

“Turns out that she wasn’t so much a  _maid_  of honor but a  _matron_.”

They all “ohhh” in response.

“Yeah, so now I’m back here with you lot.”

“Where you belong,” Freddie murmurs into Roger’s stomach.

Roger snorts, amused. “Wow, Fred. You’re a lost cause tonight, aren’t ya?”

A light snore is his reply.

Brian jostles the legs in his lap. “Did he, uh, did he just pass out on us?” he asks with a touch of wonder. “Literally?”

John’s quite knackered himself. “I want a bed of laps to lie on,” his sloshed brain petulantly admits.

“Don’t get too jealous, Deacy,” Roger warns before deftly sliding out from underneath Freddie and dropping to the floor.

Freddie jerks awake as soon as his head hits the seat. “Huh, wha?!” He quickly turns his head down and around to assess his surroundings and startles when he finds Roger’s smirking face at his eye level. “Ugh,” he groans. “You absolute bitch.”

||  

Once back in London, they go to Freddie and Roger’s flat first. John thinks that they should all be sick of one another and itching to part ways. It’s not like that somehow as he and Brian find themselves loitering in the small living area while the flatmates settle back in.

“It’s so stuffy!” Freddie complains. “Rog, open the windows.”

“We have a grand total of two windows, and you’re closest to them.”

“La-la-la, too busy making tea for our guests!”

Roger accepts defeat with a sigh and gets up to first open the one closer to all of them and skirts around Freddie in the nook they call a kitchen to open the one there. Freddie works around the intruder, gathering spoonfuls and pouring things without any trouble.

Their place is truly tiny. John can’t fathom how they stand the lack of space, although John’s student quarters aren’t anything to brag about either. He’s not looking forward to going back and awkwardly maneuvering with his roommates and negotiating for space. He’s quite envious of the easy closeness his bandmates seem to share.

John reaches out with his left hand toward the television to turn the dial and winces. He changes the channel anyway hoping Brian hadn’t notice.

He’s not so lucky.

“You all right?”

“Yup, great. It’s nothing.”

“Your fretting hand hurt?”

“Minor cramping. It’ll go away.”

Oh, no. Brian’s pursing his lips, his terrifying brain likely judging him for pushing too hard.

As he opens his mouth to speak, John pre-empts what Brian was probably going to say. “ _I know_  it’s because I’ve been playing more frequently over the last few weeks. And  _I know_  I need to take breaks and relax my hand when I can. And  _I know_  that I’ll build up strength the longer and more frequently we play. I know all these things, Brian. No need to instruct me on how to be a working musician.”

Perhaps he was overcompensating a bit too much for his insecurities. John doesn’t want Brian and the others to think he can’t handle the rigors of performing often, sometimes nightly. That he’s not as serious about the band as the rest of them.

Brian keeps his lips pursed. Instead of the judgment he feared, John can see softness and empathy in his eyes as he wordlessly reaches out a hand.

John still looks at it like it’ll slap him.

Brian patiently keeps his hand outstretched, raising an eyebrow as if that explains his intentions better.

John tentatively places his left hand in Brian’s.

The massage is glorious. Heaven. Fucking orgasmic. Brian pulls and presses in all the right ways, carefully working every finger to the tip, and even gently flexes and rolls his wrist. John wants to make the most embarrassing sounds, moan long and deep. Instead — because he’s an adult with self-control, damn it — he simply shuts his eyes, controlling his heavy breathing.

A throat clearing interrupts his reverie. John flutters his eyelids open to see the twin smirks of Roger and Freddie, each holding teacups.

“This looks,” Freddie lets his eyes linger on Brian and John’s connected hands, “sensual.”

“Yeah, Brian,” Roger tilts his head, faking a perplexed look, “since when do you give hand massages? Or any massages for that matter?”

John waits for Brian to let go.

Instead, the grip gets stronger. “Boys, sit and drink your tea,” Brian says, not even bothering to explain the situation, “and give John his cup while I finish up.”

“Yes, sir,” Freddie indulges the commanding tone and hands John his tea with a wink. He sits snuggly next to Roger, who wraps an arm around his shoulders instinctively.

John takes a slow sip of his tea, mulling over the dynamics of his new band. He's surprised how naturally he’s conformed to their easy way with each other and their utter lack of boundaries. It's a level of intimacy he’s never had before.

Brian pops a knuckle unexpectedly. “Oops,” he says with an apologetic smile and looks back down to continue his work.

John’s hand honestly feels fine now. Better than fine. He should stop Brian. Yeah, he needs to let the guitarist know his hand feels great and thank him and focus on drinking the rest of the tea and saying goodnight and going back to his crappy room.

The massage feels so good though. He doesn’t want Brian’s strong hands to stop making him feel-. Oh.

_Ohhh_.

Well, this night is just full of revelations.

||

John starts paying closer attention to Brian. Not in a creepy way, he hopes. More like an observer of behavior on a nature documentary. He treats his attraction like a mystery to be solved. It buys him time as he processes his new feelings.

While he accepts himself.

His early findings on the species of rock ’n’ roll guitarist called Brian Harold May is that he is very much not like their other bandmates when it comes to physical contact. He rarely initiates but gladly accepts from those with whom he’s comfortable or fascinated by.

His first bit of evidence comes from a night at the latest club. Brian and dancing don’t typically mix, so he mostly sticks to the bar or muddles through a dance when one of them forces him. Or entices him.

Such as the gorgeous long-haired brunette John watches pull Brian by the hand onto the dancefloor. Her eyes are thickly lined with kohl. She’s wearing a very short sparkly romper and her platform thigh-high boots rival any of John’s. The smile she flashes Brian is coy and come-hither.

She’s not special, though.

That sounds mean, but it’s true. This happens all the time when they’re out and about, whether at a club or party, after a performance, or even sitting in a café for some pastries.

Brian never has to seek out beautiful birds and boys because they will flock to him. The truly special ones are those who can get farther than a simple touch to the hand or brush of contact that comes from dancing. This brunette has a solid shot, John thinks. After all, it’s not impossible to go home with Brian.

The hitch is the man’s addled scholarly mind. He would trip over a potted plant and apologize to it. He can be overwhelmingly awkward or completely ignorant of how intimidating his diatribes on various subjects can be.

John has a feeling all of this keeps him from being the one who initiates physical contact. Why he isn’t forward or overt with flirtation and affection in the way Freddie and Roger can be.

Brian’s libido is damn lucky he’s cute.

Tonight, the brunette manages to dance two songs with Brian before he’s shaking his head bashfully, likely begging for forgiveness, feigning fatigue, and wishing her well. He comes over to where he, Freddie, and Roger are gathered near the bar to blatantly watch their friend and the girl.

“Are you joking?!” Roger yells. “She is the hottest girl here! And she didn’t look twice at me! How are you not begging for the privilege to score with her?”

Brian shrugs. “I have a lot of research to do tomorrow. I should get some sleep.”

Roger’s outrage is breathtaking. “Oh, my God! Freddie, hold my beer. _I’ll_ go beg for the privilege.”

The three remaining band members burst into laughter once Roger’s left.

Brian taking the piss out of Roger will never not be funny.

|| 

Of his three bandmates, John hit it off first with Roger. Their drummer’s enthusiasm and charisma are forces much like his drumming and vocal prowess. All of it combines into a heady elixir; being around Roger is better than any drink because he makes you feel so powerful and carefree.

And this all means reliable evidence can’t be gathered by watching Brian with Roger. John’s pretty sure a nun would praise the Lord and gladly initiate cuddling with Roger in the way he’s wrapped with Brian at the moment.

It’s a night in front of the telly (because his glamorous new rock ’n’ roll band is domestic like that, apparently). After the prerequisite disagreements over what to watch, they finally left the channel on “Monty Python’s Flying Circus.”

Roger left little choice in the matter of where he would sit when he plopped onto their guitarist and made himself comfortable. The roles easily could have been reversed, however, with Brian slowly lifting one of Roger’s arms, making himself as small as possible to tuck himself under. They’ve known each other longer, a team working on making their musical dreams come true. It’s a special relationship, and their ease with each other is to be expected.

Brian’s surely lost circulation in the leg Rog is half-sitting on, yet long, thin arms stay securely wrapped around the soft torso through all of Roger’s belly laughs.

John feels an ache seeing their unguarded affection. A bubble of jealousy rises. Then he feels a tug on his jumper. Freddie smiles and wordlessly beckons him to lean on him.

John had somehow forgotten that he was part of their intimate group now. That he can have the soft touches and warm embraces.    

Freddie’s body shakes every time he laughs causing John’s head to loll. It’s not the most comfortable position.

It’s perfect though. Absolute bliss. 

||

“I have a wonderful concept for our second album.”

John and Brian freeze their eating, chips held in suspense as they were just grabbed from the paper, looking at Freddie with twin expressions of disbelief.

“Fred,” Brian starts, pops a chip in his mouth, chews too much for a single chip, swallows, then continues, “we need a first album before we do a second.”

“Pssh,” Freddie dismisses. “We already have most of the material we want for that one. Our talents are getting attention exponentially with every performance. We’ll be in a studio working on the first soon enough, you’ll see. We have to keep moving forward and get even grander.”

John frowns. “You and Brian just got complementary winged stage costumes. How much grander can we get?”

“That’s only step one in my plan.”

Skeptical squinting joins John’s frown.

“Darling, don’t judge before you hear me out. Inspiration struck, as it often does, while at the piano. Picture it: our performance, our dress, our songs, the colors of the bloody album — all black and white.”

“That’s very … noir of you,” Brian muses.

“It has nothing to do with noir. Well, okay, not much to do with it. It’s more about dichotomies. The black and the white. Friends and enemies. Good and evil. Night and day.”

All right, John’s mildly intrigued. “This all why you got that black jumpsuit along with the angel outfit?”

“Yes! That and because it shows off my chest wonderfully.” Freddie smirks while finishing his drink.

“But I didn’t get anything black this time?” Brian wonders.

“Nothing’s set in stone. You can wear that lovely black blouse occasionally. And I’ll have my white suit, as well. But ultimately, you’re the white keys. You stay an angel, true to your nature.”

Pink colors Brian’s cheeks.

“I, on the other hand, will change into the black suit. I’m the fallen one.”

John fondly rolls his eyes. “It’s all properly grand, I grant you.”

“I’m just getting started, Deacy, dear.” Freddie reaches into his satchel and pulls out little vials.

“Nail polish?” Brian asks.

“White for Brian,” he holds up the white bottle, “and black for me.” Freddie smirks wickedly. “And whichever color Deacy desires.”

John holds his hands up to stop that notion in its tracks. “Nope, not gonna happen, Freddie. You’re lucky enough to get eyeliner on me most nights.”

“I know, darling,” he keeps smirking. “Still worth a try.” Freddie turns his attention to Brian, reaching for his left hand.

“What?” Brian asks, scandalized. “You want to paint my nails now?” He looks around at the other people eating, as if Freddie offered to blow him in front of them.

Freddie waits patiently for Brian to realize how ridiculous he’s being. Brian huffs and gives him his hand.

The situation reminds John of the night Brian took his hand to massage. He softly smiles at the recollection and the interaction of his bandmates. Brian’s brow is furrowed in concentration despite not being the one doing the actual painting. As he deftly coats each nail, Freddie goes on about his grand plan, how they’ll encourage their fans to paint their nails either black or white. It’s a chance to interact with the audience and help them feel like they’re part of Queen.

It’s a very Freddie thing to be so concerned about making their fans feel included and cared for. Like he’s done for John since he joined the band, something he definitely needed.

John notices Brian’s similar in his needs. Freddie’s attention and delicate touch is visibly relieving the tension and worry that often haunt Brian. His brow relaxes and a sweet smile forms on his lips. He looks up at John, oddly bashful and nervous, quickly looking back down as his impromptu manicure is completed. He holds his hand up for inspection. “How’s it look?”

“It suits you, White Queen.”

Brian blinks with confusion.

Freddie, on the other hand, looks proud. “Oh, Deacy, you got my chess allusion! There are so many layers to this concept, it’s beautiful.”

“It’s quite clever, Freddie,” John admits.

“Brian, don’t you dare mess those up before Roger gets a chance to see them.”

At the warning, Brian holds his hand far away in typical awkward fashion, like the body part will try to choke him without his brain’s consent. “Speaking of Rog, you better get back to the market to help at the stall, Fred.”

“Oh, you’re right. He’s mad enough that he’s missed out on getting our new wardrobe. If I don’t do some work, he’ll castrate me while I sleep.”

John snorts. “Come on, Freddie. Roger will just scream at you all night over it.”

“I’ll end up a Greek tragedy,” Freddie shudders. “Deaf and dickless.”

||

John shows up early to practice to work on the finishing touches to the amp he’s been building since joining the band.

The equipment they have right now isn’t adequate for the kind of sound the band desires. The amps need to be resilient for their louder songs, and yet, the listeners need to be able to discern each instrument’s unique sound.

Brian’s guitar in particular, aptly named the Red Special, needs a unique amp to match it. John thinks he’s finally gotten the right mix of parts.

“Brian!” The guitarist happens to be the first of his bandmates to show. “Good, you remembered your guitar this time.”

“That happened once,” Brian grumbles. “I forgot the bloody thing one time!”

John laughs. “You’re lucky it was only practice and not an actual show. I think Rog’s head would’ve exploded.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Brian notices the amp and scattered tools. “What’s all this?”

“I want to show you something I’ve been working on. It’s why I’m so glad you’ve got the guitar. Plug it in, play anything.”

Brian does as told.

John expects to hear something from their setlist, a bit from “Keep Yourself Alive” or “Liar.” Instead, he hears something new. A haunting dirge, it’s a simple pattern that builds louder, then goes quiet once more. Brian finishes with a sustained note that seems to surround them thanks to the amp.

“What was that?”

“Something I started after our lunch with Freddie.” He wiggles his painted fingers in front of his face as a reminder.

“You have a name for it yet?”

“Never mind that,” Brian coyly smiles. “John, that sounded amazing. It sounded just like I imagined in my head.”

“Yeah?” John preens a bit.

“Yeah, I’ve never heard my guitar sound like that. Thank you, Deacy.” Brian’s long arms reach out and hug him tightly.

John truly hadn’t expected such gratitude from Brian, at least not the physical sort. It counters his notion about Brian not initiating such touches.

“Thank you,” Brian whispers once more. “The amp’s wonderful.” He pulls away just barely enough to look John in the face. “You’re a wonder, Deacy.”

John doesn’t let himself miss the opportunity for up-close study of the man who’s held his fascination over the last few weeks. With the way Brian doesn’t shy away from their current proximity and how he’s been making gestures to get closer to him, John finds the evidence he’s been searching for. John realizes that he’s somehow different for Brian — in the way Brian is different for John. It gives him the confidence to reach out as well.

Brian hovers, makes no other moves to touch John — or by the way he’s staring at his lips, kiss him. He stays still, leaving the responsibility of going further entirely to the bassist.

It’s not quite the right time for him, though. When John finally does this, he doesn’t want interruptions (Freddie and Roger should be stepping through the door any minute). He wants them to have the time to talk — and touch.

He gives an apologetic smile and meets Brian halfway with a quick press of his lips to his cheek. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

||

“You throw the worst rooftop parties, Bri.”

Brian quickly dismisses Roger’s complaint. “It’s not a party. It’s just the four of us.”

“Where are the drinks?” Roger continues as if Brian never spoke.

“You have a bottle in your hand.”

“Which I had to get myself from your refrigerator.”

“Rog has … half a point, darling,” Freddie allows. “You invited us up here to watch your precious shooting stars. And you, as host, haven’t provided any chairs or cushions to rest on.”

Brian holds up a ratty duvet in his defense.

“That’s it?”

“Freddie,” Brian whines, managing to beg him with just the utterance of his name to stop calling attention to his hermitic living conditions and lack of anything to spare.

Freddie takes pity. “Fine, spread the ugly blanket out then.”

Brian does so with one impressive whip of the blanket upward, allowing it to float down perfectly flat.

They all lie down parallel to each other.

“This is so fucking uncomfortable,” Roger proclaims.

“Yeah,” they all mumble in agreement.

“Well, I’m sitting up,” Freddie says and leans back on the rooftop wall. “Roggie, why don’t you scoot up and lay your pretty head on my lap?”

Roger welcomes the suggestion and immediately does so.

John and Brian stubbornly don’t make a move at first. Then John thinks better of it, realizing this might be the moment he’s been waiting for.

He sits up next to Freddie against the wall. Brian twists around to look at him in his new position. John doesn’t miss how he looks down at his lap. “Come on, Brian,” he urges. “Get comfortable.”

Brian bites his bottom lip in consideration before slowly crawling over.

Before John can fully appreciate having the mess of curls in his lap, Brian points up. “Look! I see one!”

They all look upward to see a meteor zip out of sight toward the east. Soon enough, more appear, varying in brightness, streaks of light crossing and fading away.

It’s a magical sight, and John truly is glad he’s witnessing it. But he can’t help how he eventually pulls his gaze away to look down at Brian. The astrophysics student’s face is suitably awed. His mouth is slack, eyes shining with wonder. Those eyes shift surprisingly toward John, probably sensing he was being watched. The wonder doesn’t leave them.

John smiles down wide and unguarded. Brian grins back, canines on full display.

||

The familiar sounds of Roger’s snoring reach their ears after the meteor shower mostly ended and the hour was back to single digits.

Freddie pokes Roger in the side. “Come on, dear. Time for us to go home.”

The process of getting up from the unforgiving rooftop after so long isn’t pretty. They groan and complain the entire time.

John and Brian stay close to each other, though, coming to a silent agreement.

Roger clears his throat to get their attention. “Deacs? Am I taking you back to yours?”

John does his best not to acknowledge the knowing smirks on Roger and Freddie’s faces. “I, uh, think I’ll crash with Bri tonight.”

John can make out a low, sustained squeal of delight coming from Freddie upon hearing his answer.

“ _Goodnight, you two_ ,” Brian says with emphasis and finality. “Safe drive back and all that.”

“Of course, dear,” Freddie takes the hint. “Have a good night. Take good care of Deacy.”

Before either he or Brian can counter the implications of Freddie’s words, he pulls a still-smirking Roger quickly away toward the rooftop exit.

John and Brian give mutual huffs of amusement at their bandmates’ antics. After a moment more, Brian’s long fingers intertwine with John’s to lead him down the stairs to his loft.

Once inside, nervousness creeps up. The enormity of the step John’s about to take with Brian hits him, and he’s a healthy mixture of scared and excited.

They walk to the pullout bed in the middle of the small room. Brian turns on a lamp and gets his first look at all the emotions written over John’s face. He brings a hand up to wrap behind his neck, giving a gentle squeeze. “We don’t have to do anything.”

John won’t let his nerves interfere. “I want to,” he assures. “I’ve just, um, never been with a man. Didn’t quite realize I wanted to until you.”

“Ah,” Brian ducks his head a bit. “Um, same.”

“Really?” John’s surprised for some reason. “But you’re older.”

Brian scrunches his faces in confusion. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“More experience?”

“Deacy, I know I might act like a grandfather sometimes, but I’m only 23. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m really a disaster flirt.”

John giggles at that, recalling all his observations over the past few weeks. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“So, no, I haven’t had the opportunity to be with a bloke. Haven’t been interested enough to reach out until you.”

“Glad I didn’t come off as untouchable,” John admits. “I’m not the best at physical closeness either.”

“I did wait to see how you handled being around Freddie and Roger before I gathered the courage.”

John blinks. “You’ve been … studying me?”

Brian brings his other hand up to properly cup his face. “John, I’ve wanted you since the day you played the bass riff for ‘The Night Comes Down’.”

“You had me play that at audition.”

“You were perfect,” Brian smiles fondly. “Hey, Deacy?” he almost whispers.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been waiting a good bit for this night to happen. Can I finally kiss you?”

John’s heart races at the question. He nods a yes. “Please,” he softly adds.

Their mouths slot together with ease, their mutual anticipation making the kiss almost second nature, like they’ve done this plenty of times before despite it being their first. Brian’s not shy with his tongue as he sweeps the tip just underneath John’s upper lip while he changes the tilt of his head. His hands glide down John’s back to pull him tight against his body. Then the hands slide up his shirt to touch bare skin. Brian breaks the kiss to run his lips and tongue against his pulse point, somehow at the same time whispering John’s name into the skin.

It’s all deliciously dizzying. John’s close to surrendering to the feeling and burying his hands in Brian’s curls to pull him to the bed. He knows, though, that he can’t before they set out some clear boundaries for the evening. “Bri-Brian, how far do you want to go?”

The other man pauses and glazed eyes find his. “I want to do everything with you.”

“Oh-okay,” John breathes, because, yeah, he really wants to do everything with Brian too, but-

“Eventually,” Brian interrupts John’s anxious inner thoughts. “I mean, I’m _prepared_ for all that thanks to Freddie and Roger if you really want to try-”

“What?”

Brian swallows hard. “Um, they bought me a supply of lubricant and condoms.”

John scoffs in disbelief.

“They’re really invested in us.”

John appreciates his friends’ support, but “God, that’s embarrassing.”

“You’re telling me? They put fucking bows on the packaging.”

John can’t help but laugh. “I kind of want to see all that.”

Brian raises an eyebrow, trying to read if he really wants to see the items for laughs or for their sexier intended purpose.

“Eventually,” John quickly adds, same as Brian had. “We’ll save them for later.” He lets his hands finally reach up to disappear into Brian’s hair. “For now, do you mind just touching me?”

Brian’s hands ruck his shirt up as they climb higher up his back. “I can definitely do that.”

||

The next day at practice, John and Brian are the late ones for once, walking through the door hand-in-hand and wearing the dopiest smiles. Roger and Freddie’s keen eyes notice all of this, of course.

They haven’t made it too far into the room before they’re rushed by their bandmates, arms wrapping around all sides and smooshing them together.

“We’re so happy for you!” Freddie squeals.

“Do we need to buy you more lube?” Roger asks.

John groans. Perhaps his band’s level of physical intimacy is too close, after all.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
